


How It Ends

by arts_and_letters



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-15
Updated: 2014-07-15
Packaged: 2018-02-08 21:49:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1957326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arts_and_letters/pseuds/arts_and_letters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the story of John and Sherlock through the years, and the time and space that threatens to separate them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, so sometimes I get in a mood, and something angsty comes out of it (cough*give my best to redbeard*cough*). This is another one of those. This is not nearly as tragic, but it’s still kind of downer. Enjoy! I’m sorry…

 

This is how it ends. 

It doesn’t happen all at once, but slowly over time. 

The time between calls would get longer and longer. First a few weeks, then a few months, then only once or twice a year. 

But still, whenever they were together, it was like the good old days again. Sherlock felt grounded and John felt lighter, and it was like no time had separated them at all.  
  
Eventually, though, time just got away from them. It was not a conscious decision. It was always: 

 _T_ _omorrow, I’ll call Sherlock tomorrow._

Or

 _Text John. Tomorrow._

It would be on the To Do list, but it wouldn’t get done. So it would be added to tomorrow’s—and again and again—until one day it stayed on yesterday’s list, and it was just forgotten.

And time elapsed and life was busy and it just became a dull ache—a nagging guilt—an obligation, that was easier to forget than to confront. Besides—

He could always just call me

 _If he weren’t so busy with his bloody experiments_  

Or 

 _If he weren’t so busy with that bloody baby_

So no one picked up the phone. 

At a certain point, when you’re separated by time and space, it becomes easier to remember the bad 

 _Corpses in the fridge, never letting me sleep, using me, drugging me_

Or 

 _Always so angry, always so sensitive, never lets me have any fun_

And somehow the good times are harder to hold onto. 

Yes, there was a fight. More than one.

There were always a lot of fights, but when you have a friend who is as infuriating as Sherlock Holmes and someone else with a temper like John Watson—well, there were always going to be a lot of fights. That’s just who they were and how they were when they were together. 

Of course, in the old days—before the fall—they fought as well. Sometimes a few punches were thrown—maybe someone said something they didn’t mean, or maybe they just said something they didn’t mean to say. 

But in the end it was all okay, because when they were together—as soon as the first blush of anger faded—it was just them. John and Sherlock. And they couldn’t help but forgive and forget and immediately run off and get into trouble again. 

That’s just how they were. They were best friends from the moment they met. It was the only way they knew how to be.

It’s different though when you no longer live together. When there’s not a stairway separating you but a taxi or a tube ride. Maybe a bus exchange or two. 

When you share the same tiny flat, your only choice is to work things out or stay angry, and it was always easier to let things go. But when you no longer occupy the same small living space, sometimes it’s easier to hold onto the conflict and let the relationship slide instead. 

Besides, it’s different once you have a child. When you start building your life around the absence of the other person.   
  
  
  
 

And this is how it began. Not enough time, fewer phone calls, a fight that never really got resolved.

Then there’s an event— 

 _Emma’s seventh birthday party_  

Mary asks, “What about Sherlock? We should send him an invitation, right?” 

And John says, “No, he wouldn’t be interested. Not really his thing.”  
  
And Mary asks, “Shouldn’t you call him at least?”  
  
And John says, “Yeah, I’ve been meaning to. After the party.” 

And Mary shrugs and asks, “What about Mike Stamford?” 

(Mike Stamford gets invited. He has two children, a girl and a boy, right around Emma’s age. And Mike’s one of those friends who just hangs around forever. It’s easy with him—no fights, no guilt.)

And around that same time there’s another event—

 _Sherlock’s forty-fifth birthday party, the one Lestrade forces him to have._  

Lestrade asks, “Should I invite John?” 

And Sherlock says, “No, he’s too busy.” 

And Lestrade asks, “Are you sure?” 

And Sherlock just shrugs. 

Inertia. Even the closest of friendships can be swallowed up by it.   
  
  
  
 

A few years pass like this—no calls, no texts, no invitations. 

But then, one day, they run into each other—at the market, maybe, or at a restaurant—and there's a moment of surprise—pleasant, but a surprise nonetheless, to see a once familiar face that has aged in every way since you last saw it. 

(People become frozen in time when they go from being the center of your world to a specter from the past.) 

And when they meet, it’s awkward. They both wonder—

 _Should we hug?_

(They do, but it’s uncomfortable.) 

There’s the 

 _How are things?_

And 

 _I’m sorry—I’ve meant to call_

And Sherlock makes a joke

(It’s funny but hits a little too close to home, and John isn’t used to Sherlock’s humor anymore.) 

And then one of them says 

 _I better be going_  

And the other says 

 _Yes of course me too_  

And then they both say

 _I’ll call_

(They won’t)

And then they turn around and walk the other away. 

Later that night, John will say to Mary  
  
 _Guess who I ran into?_

And John will explain, and Mary will say 

 _That’s nice_  

And then they’ll both go to bed. 

And back at Baker Street, Sherlock will say to the skull

(because Mrs. Hudson isn’t there anymore)

_Guess who I ran into today?_

Of course, the skull won’t say anything, and Sherlock will try not to remember the days when Mrs. Hudson would come bustling up the stairs to fuss over him after a long day. 

(Sherlock still hasn’t learned how to make morning tea. He just goes without in her absence.) 

And since there is no one to talk to, Sherlock will pick up his violin and play like his heart is breaking. 

But it isn’t. The pain will dull, and he’ll settle back into a life without John Watson, and he’ll forget that there was a time when the world seemed unbearably empty without his best friend. 

And John is so busy—with work, with Mary, with Emma (and soon there will be another one on the way) that he doesn’t have to try to forget. It just happens. And he’s happy with his life, the way it is now. 

Maybe when things settle down—but they never do, not really. And it’s often easier to forget than try to recapture something that was too ephemeral to tie down. 

  
  
 

They’ll run into each other again, of course. It will be much like the previous time, only worse—even more stilted, even more unpleasant. 

In fact, it’s so awkward that a few more years later—when they cross paths again—they’ll both look the other way and keep on moving without a word. 

Two ships passing in the night. 

And this is how it ends.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good news! This isn’t actually the end. Or, it was at first, but then I decided I needed to give these two a happy (well, happier) ending. Stay tuned for one more short installment. I should get it posted within the next couple days since it’s already written.


	2. After the End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the story of John and Sherlock through the years, and the time and space that threatens to separate them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who left feedback on the first chapter! This story was inspired by something I've gone through recently with one of my closest friends, which is why the first chapter ended up being so angsty. As common as the original scenario is in real life, I don't actually think it would happen to these two which is why I decided to write this bittersweet but not nearly as bleak sequel.

 

John stands unmoving—for how long, he couldn’t say—with his eyes fixed on a name written in stone. 

The day is overcast, but not rainy. Cool, but not too chilly. 

It would almost be pleasant, if he weren’t alone, in a cemetery, staring at the name of the person he loved most in the entire world. 

 _Mary Watson_  

He keeps blinking away the tears that threaten to fall, and he tries to stir himself to move.

(This has been his evening ritual every day since it happened, and with every passing day, it gets harder—not easier—to leave.) 

Before he can convince himself to walk away, he is startled by the sound of a now strange—but once so familiar—voice.                           

“My condolences, John.” 

John turns around, his heart skipping, unable to believe it until he sets eyes on the much older face of— 

“Sherlock! How—what are you—“ 

“I came as soon as I heard.” 

“That’s—wait, she died two weeks ago. Where did you come from?”  
  
“Oh it’s a long story. I was doing some research—” 

“Research?”  
  
“Yes, well, can’t keep up with the criminals like I used to, what with the bad leg and all—"

“What bad leg?”

“Fell out of a window—long story.”

For a little while, neither of them speaks. The chasm of time separating them feels overwhelming—two lives, once intertwined, separated by years that turned into decades, filled with so many details that each of them has missed. 

Eventually, Sherlock breaks the silence, with a cautious question. 

“How did it happen?”  
  
“Cancer. Metastatic. It all happened so quickly—and yet painfully slowly. One day she was here, and then she was gone.”  
  
“I wish you had called.”  
  
“I know, I—actually, I don’t think I even have your number anymore.” 

Sherlock shrugs. 

“There’s no number to have.”  
  
“You don’t have a phone?”  
  
“Why bother? Mycroft always finds a way to reach me no matter how hard I try to lose him. Lestrade is retired now, so there are no more cases. He stops by Baker Street occasionally, but no need for advanced notice. And Mrs. Hudson—”

Sherlock stops, can’t quite get out the words. 

“Yeah, I heard—Sherlock, I’m sorry, I should have been there—” 

“No, it’s fine. You were busy.”  
  
“I wasn’t too busy for that. I should have called. I should have been there.”

John feels a guilt that he buried long ago start to well up all over again.

“How are you, Sherlock?”

Sherlock laughs, bitterly.

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that question?”  
  
“The love of my life is dead. My children have all moved away. I’m retired now, and I couldn’t face going back to my old job even if they would take me. I’m miserable, frankly.”  
  
“You’re bored.” 

“I’m in _mourning,_ Sherlock.”  
  
“And you’re bored.”

“Yeah, that too, I suppose.” 

“So what will you do now?”  
  
“Go home. Pass the time. Do some reading, maybe. The kids call a couple times a week, always good to hear from them. I haven’t spoken to Harry in years. I don’t even know if she’s still alive, actually."  
  
“Come stay with me.”  
  
“What?” 

“Come back to Baker Street, with me.”  
  
“Sherlock, I have a home, the mortgage is paid—” 

“Rent it out.”

“I can’t just—“  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“Because—” 

“John, you’re wasting away. Any day now you’ll be strangling the milk man.”  
  
“We don’t _have_ a milk man, Sherlock. No one has had a milk man any time this century.” 

“Figure of speech.” 

“No, it isn’t.”

Sherlock waves his hand dismissively.

“Come on, it will be just like the old days.”  
  
“No it won’t, because _we’re_ old now.”

“So? Do you really want to return to the same house, by yourself? Is that what Mary would have wanted for you?”  
  
“Mary would have wanted to be here to see her grandchildren grow up.”

John’s face darkens as the pain of the recent loss comes flooding back, and Sherlock closes the gap between them, reaches out, and puts his hand on John’s shoulder in sympathy.

It isn’t much—which is for the best anyway, too much empathy and John might go to pieces all together. Besides, it’s enough. More than enough. 

(John had forgotten how human Sherlock can be.) 

Sherlock says, quietly, “How about this. Come by to visit tomorrow. Just stop by, whenever you want.”  
  
“And?”  
  
“And we’ll catch up. Get take out.” 

“Okay—yeah, that sounds good.”  
  
“Excellent,” Sherlock says with a smile.

He starts to turn away, but before leaving, he adds, “I am sorry, John. She was an extraordinary woman. No less than you deserved. I only wish the two of you had more time together.”

John feels the sadness start to overwhelm him, so he only nods in response. 

 

 

The next day, John does come over, and they talk and reminisce, and then they go out and walk the streets of London together, and it’s almost like no time has passed at all. 

And so it goes. 

John comes over for lunch, then stays for dinner, and sometimes doesn’t leave for several hours after that. 

Occasionally Lestrade stops by, and Molly too.  

Some days they go to visit Mary’s grave together, and then eventually Mrs. Hudson’s, where John is finally able to pay his last respects to the woman who meant so much to the both of them.

They reminiscence about the old times—the good and the bad—and gradually begin to fill one another in on all the events that occurred in the years that separated them.

And then they begin to make new memories together.

A few weeks pass like this until one day John shows up a little later than usual.

(Sherlock started to wonder if he would be coming over at all.) 

But he does show up, with a duffel bag in hand, and when Sherlock opens the door, John says— 

“I’ll go get the rest of it later.”

And that is how it ends.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something about this fandom, its made me go soft. But I love it so much! I hope this makes up for the depressing first chapter.
> 
> Anyway, I’m currently working on a much longer John/Sherlock friendship story (12,000 words and counting) so stay tuned for that. 
> 
> Thanks for reading, and if you have a moment to leave a comment, I’d love to hear what you thought of this chapter!


End file.
